


Of Sinners and Devotees

by cabritinho



Category: Sally Face (Video Games)
Genre: AU in which Sal evades the police and is on the run, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, I might add minor original characters to fill in roles where need be, M/M, Will also contain religious themes., Will contain triggering material. Viewer discretion advised.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-09-22 18:27:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17064860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cabritinho/pseuds/cabritinho
Summary: The sinful fugitive turns to a man of God for help, answers, and vengeance.[On Hiatus]





	1. Chapter 1

Heavy was the weight Sal Fisher bore on his shoulders. Every crime, every sin--it all amassed into a hardship so unbearable, he had to support himself against the payphone machine, lest his trembling legs would give way beneath him. With shallow breath and quaking hands, he jammed the last quarter from his pocket into the coin slot, and dialed a familiar number. It droned a torturous tone. 

"Come on, come on, pick up!" he rasped. Barely could he manage even the utter, for his entire chest constricted and crushed the breath within him. He seized his own hair--a habit retained from his youth whenever he fell into the clutches of anxiety. His fingers were encrusted in blood that did not belong to him.

Outside was a heavy downpour. The rain beat the earth in wicked synchronization with the heart that pounded loudly in his ears. A misty haze shrouded the premises--and he, alone, was trapped in this box with himself and his creeping trepidation. His sole organic eye flickered among the surroundings. Were they watching him now? Would they ambush him from the mist? Could he survive a single step outside of the booth--or would he be shot down to join those he slaughtered--

"Hello?" 

"Travis! It's me, Sal. Listen, I need you to come and pick me up, I'm at the corner of--" 

"Sal, slow down, I can barely understand a word you're saying. What happened to you? You sound distressed." 

"Things went very wrong very fast. I don't have much time. Please. I'm begging you. They'll be here any minute, they're coming for me--" 

"Who? What's going on?" 

"I can't--The corner of King's and Cedar! I'm at the corner of King's and Cedar! For the love of God, help me!" he shrieked into the receiver, his vision blurring wetly. 

"Sal--God--Okay, okay, I'll be there! Just... hang tight, yeah? See you soon." 

Unable to manage a simple goodbye, he hung up. He slumped against the glass pane of the booth. First, he screamed. And then, he cried. 

He cradled his head in those bloodied hands. They were gone. All of them. His friends, his family--he extinguished their lives one by one, and all that remained of their memories was their blood on his person. Never had he the desire to kill, to murder, to slay. But he had no choice. He never had a choice. That was what he told himself. It was either he who would butcher them, or the Red-Eyed Demon. That vile, wretched demon that would condemn them all to a hell much worse than death. He loved them too much for that. And thus, he killed them. So they wouldn't suffer an endless torment. So the cult wouldn't get their sick satisfaction. 

So Larry's suicide wouldn't have been in vain. 

After an eternity, the crunching of gravel beneath worn tires severed Sal from the terrors of his mindscape. From the shabby, little car Travis emerged, swaddled in a thick coat to protect him from the rain and gale. His worry was evident on his face. "Sal, what in God's name happened?" And then, he saw the red. "Oh, Christ, are you injured?" 

Sal said nothing. Instead, he attempted to step forward. But his feeble knees only objected, and thus, he tumbled forward. Travis raced to where he crumpled upon the ground, and, in a single, fluid motion, hoisted the broken man to his feet. He maneuvered Sal's arm across his own shoulders, and kept him steady by the waist. Step by step, Travis managed to tote him to the car, all the while questioning the circumstances in a fast-paced mutter. Into the back seat Sal was ushered. Travis supplied him a dusty, faded blanket from the floor. He kept calling Sal's name--but he sounded so, so far away. 

"Just drive," barked Sal, voice hoarse. 

Reluctantly, Travis returned to the driver's seat. From the rear-view mirror by which a rosary hung, Travis gave one last concerned glance before speeding off. 

.....

Though Travis had left Nockfell years ago, he remained within a shared county, therefore the drive's duration was not agonizing. The affluent apartments in which he resided were not Addison's--thank God--and aside from the harsh downpour, were otherwise quiet. Peaceful. Travis, somehow, urged Sal up the flight of stairs and to his own flat--Sal's footsteps heavy on the pavement. 

Inside, Travis directed him to the sofa, whereupon Sal promptly collapsed, still clutching to that dusty blanket as though his life depended on it. His quaking minimized, but did not altogether alleviate. Looking upon the mess of a man on his couch, Travis sighed, running his fingers through his blond hair.

"I... I think I'm going to go get the first aid kit," he said, nonplussed. Sal responded not. 

Travis was absent for scarcely a second, and soon returned with the promised kit in hand. Atop the coffee table, he unclasped it. It was well stocked with medical supplies. He uncapped a bottle of mild antiseptics and readied a cloth. "Alright," he said, "let's see the damage." Yet Sal did not release his self-embrace. Travis tried to pry free an arm, but it did not budge. "Come on, Sal, it looks like you've lost quite a bit of blood. Would you rather I took you to the hospital instead?"

The tension lessened, though did not dissolve, nor did he proffer any limb for examination. But it was progress. 

An alarming amount of blood soiled his clothing. Travis himself knew not where to start. He took Sal by the slack arm and rolled his sleeve from wrist to shoulder. He found no injuries there, aside from the scars that had long faded. The other arm provided the same outcome. He presumed, then, his major injuries must have been inflicted upon his abdomen, for that was where the mass of blood collected (and, just maybe, the rest of his clothing was stained due to him trying to hold it in). 

Tentatively, he lifted the thin fabric from Sal's stomach, bracing himself for whatever horrid gash lay beneath and--nothing. 

"What? I--Sal, where is it that you're hurt? _Are_ you hurt?" 

Unresponsive. 

The true source of the blood was a mystery. He had no clue where it might have came from, nor did he think he wanted to know. Whatever the cause, it must have been traumatizing, considering how Sal was rendered into silence because of it. 

Travis decided, then, that perhaps it was wisest to find a distraction. If the tension were to diminish, Sal might be comforted, and thus be able to explain. 

So he turned on the television. Because Travis himself barely touched the system, and only ever frequented the news, that was the channel that was on.

A blond reporter woman with gaudy make-up stood before the Addison Apartments. Behind her: the police and the blare of their red-blue sirens. Several ambulances were present, and respondents dragged bodies from the entrance.

"Clare Nettles here from Faux News, live at the scene of a tragedy. Tonight we are here at Nockfell's very own Addison Apartments, wherein a grisly incident occurred: Dozens were found slaughtered in their apartments, all apparently at the hands of a deranged killer. The police now work diligently to remove the dead from the premises." 

"Oh, _Jesus Christ_."

Had this been the calamity that Sal endured? Had he, a victim, somehow escaped the clutches of a murderer? Was the blood that of his loved ones? Travis's heart felt heavy with immense empathy.

"The suspect had evaded authorities and is believed to still be loose within Nockfell county. According to a young, female witness who was present at the climax of the incident, the culprit is believed to be one of the apartment's own tenants--a man by the name of Sal Fisher. The woman witness described him to be short, of European descent, with blue hair, and wearing an identifiable prosthetic mask. If anyone has any information on his whereabouts, please contact the police at the number--"

The television flickered off. The empathy that once resided in his heart warped into a harrowing, appalling thing--fear. He sat there beside the killer with his mouth agape in disbelief, his brown eyes wide with horror. For a while, an ominous chill settled within the room. A sudden premonition seized him. 

Ever so slowly, he turned his head, staring. Sal stared back. And then, in a terrified whisper:

"Sal, what have you done?"


	2. Chapter 2

Travis repeated himself. " _Sal, what have you done_?" He could not accept the news--he prayed it was some elaborate, sick joke. He would dare not believe it, lest the culprit himself confirmed it. 

"I had no choice," replied Sal in a haunting whisper, as though the report struck terror into him as well. He latched onto his hair with both of his pallid hands. 

"What?" 

"I had no choice!" he erupted. He trembled violently. It looked as though he would tear the hair from his scalp. "I had to do it! There wasn't any other way!" This defense he repeated, his volume growing with each iteration.

Away from the alleged killer Travis sprung, and hoped none of the fellow tenants could hear through the thin walls. The sight of Sal sitting there, screaming and shaking, inflicted Travis with a dreadful chill. Backwards he was driven, until his lower back pressed against the island counter of the conjoined kitchen. The knife rack was behind him. Ever so furtively, he unsheathed one of the kitchen knives, and hid it from sight behind him. He planned not to utilize it; it was a simple precaution. 

Though difficult to force the words from his throat, stuck as they were, he questioned: "What do you mean you 'had no choice'?" 

"The cult, the demon! The darkness transmitting in their veins! Larry--I--Oh, God, Larry! I can't--I couldn't--I only wanted to help! To save them!" 

What madness was he spewing? Was Sal Fisher truly insane? Had he allowed a madman into his home? 

"Sal," he began, swallowing his fear, "if... if you don't tell me what the fuck you're talking about, I'm--" He took a shuddering breath. "--I'm calling the police." 

"Don't!" Sal stood abruptly. 

Travis recoiled, instinctively pointing the knife at him. Sal's eye flickered to it, and, as if the blade had rattled him back into reality, he slowly situated himself back onto the sofa, his hand raised in self-protective gesture. Though his breaths were ragged and himself still perturbed, he prioritized the thought of the weapon, and satiating the man who wielded it. 

"I... I didn't want to kill them, I..." His voice quavered, and he blinked blearily. He looking into Travis's eyes--his own, glassy with tears. "Travis, I... I didn't want to kill _anybody_."

The knife lowered, but remained drawn. Confusion consumed Travis's thoughts. What was this? Guilt? Regret? How does one slaughter an entire complex of people and claim to not harbor murderous intent? "Then... _why_?"

Beneath his mask, his mouth was agape with a loss for words. He could only repeat: "I had no choice." 

Travis's eyebrows scrunched together, his face contorting. "Of course you did! You had the choice to pick up the knife, didn't you? To stab them!" His words were laced with venomous repulsion. "No one put the knife in your hand and forced you!" 

"Mr. Addison--" Sal held his legs and caved into himself once again. "Mr. Addison told me that it was the only way." 

"Only way to _what_?!"

"To prevent the Devourers of God from infecting everyone with the Red-Eyed Demon!" 

Travis paused, the malice disappearing from his visage. Something flashed in his eyes. 

"Repeat that." 

Sal's organic eye glanced up to him--he, too, knew how deranged it sounded. 

"What you just said, repeat that!" he yelled, emphasizing with an erratic gesture of the knife. He wanted to appear angry. He couldn't--only woeful. 

"I killed them to prevent the Devourers of God from infecting everyone with the Red-Eyed Demon!" Sal shrieked, the tears plastering against his face underneath his prosthetic. 

Travis grew quiet. He replaced the knife onto the counter. He dragged his hands across his face, weary. "Start from the beginning." 

"...What?" 

"Tell me everything, and start from the beginning." 

.....

A silence overtook the two men upon the sofa. Travis sat jaded with his head held in his hands. Sal cradled his own legs in defensive embrace. 

Sal had told him everything. The dreadful night in which he and his father settled into Addison's, only to discover their neighbor slaughtered, and of the obsessive man who was thought guilty. The ghosts of the fifth floor, and the demon that haunted the halls--how he himself thought it nothing more than a malign apparition. He mentioned the conspiracies Todd uncovered, and how Ashley descended upon a dark temple with unholy scriptures. The years wherein he, Larry, and Todd hunted down clues were recollected with a nostalgic melancholia. (He neglected the details of the cannibalistic bologna and the suspicion of Travis's father, thinking it would devastate the other irreparably.) 

Following those tales, he retold the night that tormented him so. Larry's suicide. Addison's monster. The cult's capsules. Todd's possession. His murders.

A torturous weight lifted from his chest--but even so, a new suspense seized him. 

"I know it all sounds like some fabricated delusion. You probably don't believe me, but I swear I've only told you the truth." 

"I didn't say I don't believe you. I'm just... processing." 

Another silence. 

"I think you need help, Sal." 

"I'm not crazy." 

"I didn't say that, either," said Travis, vexed. "But you do need help. Living with all that was done--what _you've_ done--well... Nobody can live like that." 

"You learn to live with the horror eventually." 

Travis sighed and sat upright, his hands falling into his lap. Brown eyes connected with blue, a sorrowful dullness within them. "No, you don't, Sal. You only learn to repress it. And then it consumes you from the inside, out. You really do need help." 

"It doesn't matter, Travis. I can't get any professional help when the police are still out for my head." 

"Then how will you help yourself? What are you going to do?" He sounded pained, though he was not the one in defeat. 

"The only thing I can do. I'm going to put an end to those fucking monsters that started this mess in the first place."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shorter and dialogue-heavy, but a necessary stepping stone


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> merry belated christmas from me to you

The hot water descended upon his person, and his skin bloomed ruddy beneath it. Downwards it spilled, past his face, shoulders, back, and legs--and with it, lather and blood pooled about his feet. His sins washed down the drain. Still, images of wide, horror-stricken eyes flashed behind his eyelids, and those shrill screams reverberated within his head. The water trickling down his body reddened and thickened. His father's last words replayed like a haunting refrain. 

He blinked. The water was once again translucent and thin. He tried to focus on the hiss of the shower-head instead. 

Sal remained beneath the cascade long after his body was soaped clean. His head, bearing a migraine from his prior screaming and crying, lolled forwards, and his cobalt hair spilled forth in wet strands like a tattered curtain. The scorching water pounded against his neck and shoulders. He breathed in the steam. And like that, the tension began to melt away--and for the first time that night, he felt safe. 

Then, the shower was silenced. He stepped onto a rough, old mat and swathed himself in a provided towel. His eye caught the mirror mounted upon the wall. Steamed as it was, he wiped clear the surface with the back of his hand and stared dully at his reflection. He was absolutely haggard--his coarse appearance made no better by his naturally grotesque features. With this newfound exhaust, it seemed his face withered even more than normal. 

(He remembered how worn his father had always been, before he had married Lisa. Post-marriage, Henry recovered all of the youth long lost, and he was happy--but nevermore.) 

Sal dried the dew from his prosthetic that laid upon the countertop, and affixed it to his mangled face. There. That was better. 

He dressed. Having no clothes aside from those that were tarnished, he was left with no option other than to borrow Travis's. He was lent a plain, black long-sleeved shirt as well as a pair of sweatpants that were worn at the hems. Both garments were over-sized; the shirt barely hung from his bony shoulders, and he had to yank tight and double-knot the drawstring to prevent the pants from dropping. 

The creak of the door was a dreary one. Sal stared down the scarce, dark hall, cautious of taking a step forward. The very thought of being in another's house was disconcerting at best, though Travis had been adamant about Sal remaining with him. The option wasn't appealing. Though he himself had contacted Travis first, dragging him into his own plight was never his intention. So many Sal had already involved. So many were damned. His dad, Todd, Larry--dead, insane, or both. The likelihood of him inflicting Travis with that same fate filled him with an abhorrent repulsion. Travis was probably the only one whom he could call a friend at this point. 

He would have to devise a plan of relocating without concerning the other. 

The scent of brewing coffee permeated the air as he crept down the hall. Around the corner was the kitchen, wherein Travis fixed a 3 a.m. breakfast for the both of them, starving as they were from the volatile night they had endured. Sal sat himself upon a stool at the island counter, quiet. After all that had occurred, it felt bizarre to sit down for a proper meal. 

The plate met the faux marble countertop with a delicate _clink_. The meal: fried eggs and reheated leftover ham. As Travis bustled about the kitchen space for utensils and condiments, Sal unclasped the lower latch of his prosthetic. 

"Oh, there's this, too," Travis mumbled, fetching a woven bread basket from beside the oven. Between the two of them he placed it, procuring a roll for himself and nodding for Sal to do the same. 

Sal tentatively took a roll and bit into it beneath his mask. It was far chewier than anticipated, and was unlike any bread he had had before--it tasted not of wheat. "What is this?"

" _Pão de queijo_ ," Travis replied, an unidentifiable accent laced within the words. "My mother used to make it all the time for breakfast. So I found a recipe, and, well." 

Sal decided he liked it. "It's good." 

"Better be. I made them from scratch. They're probably a bit stale now, since I made them a couple days ago, but they'll do." 

All went silent aside from the clicking of utensils and the recital of a short before-feast prayer beneath Travis's breath. 

Sal stared at the half-eaten _pão_ in hand. The meals his mother had once cooked for him had long faded from his memory, nor could he recall any of her famed recipes that his father had craved when intoxicated. Without the little, happier details, it seemed his mother herself was dwindling farther and farther away from him than she already was, six feet under. 

Despite having complimented the morsel, Sal found it difficult to finish the _pão_. 

Travis likely detected this silent distress, considering he redirected the conversation. "So, what are you planning to do now?" 

Reality returned. Sal took a moment to gather his bearings. "I... don't know, exactly. I'll have to further investigate the cult and its activities--goals. Maybe break into Addison's once the cops clear out to find any evidence." Had the Devourers of God not erased every trace of their existence within Addison's by then, that is. Their stratagems were well-devised, Sal knew--from the police department to the federal records, the cult had their connections and used them deviously. Hell, maybe the respondents to the massacre had done away with the evidence themselves. 

"That's too dangerous." 

"My entire life's been nothing but dangerous. God wouldn't have it any other way." His words lacked the sarcasm he wished for, and instead, were hollow. 

Travis averted his attention towards his plate to conceal his discomfort of the distasteful use of God's name. "I just don't think it's a wise plan," he muttered. 

"You have any better ideas?" 

"Well... didn't you mention you and the others hoarded all of your finding at Todd's house? Maybe you'll rediscover something relevant there."

"There's nothing there I don't already know. Besides, I--" His fingers tightened around his fork. "--I can't face Neil. Not after what happened to Todd, I... It doesn't feel right." 

"Sal--"

He swallowed the lump that clenched in his gullet. "It was all of that occult investigating that wound up taking his boyfriend away from him. I wouldn't dare to just show up at his house and say 'hey, I know the cult abducted the love of your life and conducted heinous experiments on him, but can I pretty please take a peek at those notes he left behind?' No, I... I'm not a monster." The hand that held the fork shook with an angry force. 

Travis nearly reached out to touch it, calm it. But he refrained. 

"Wouldn't Neil want to get to the bottom of everything, too-- _especially_ because they took Todd?" 

Truth be told, Sal desired nothing more in the moment than to address Neil and explain to him the horrors inflicted upon his lover--and to console him throughout. As good of a man as Neil was, he, most of all, deserved to know. And yet, the thought of appearing before him filled Sal with foreboding dread. With the news of his own murders, who knew how Neil now perceived him? Sal had become a calamitous omen that brought nothing but death in his wake--nobody in their sane mind would welcome a killer upon their doorstep. 

As long as Neil himself remained relatively unaffected by the Devourers' schemes, Sal would not intervene. He deserved to move onward with a normal life, taking care of himself and Gizmo. (How Sal missed that cat. Gizmo had been his primary source of emotional comfort ever since he was a child. He would bury his face in its cream-orange fur whenever the world became unbearable. At least Sal knew it was now within capable hands.)

"Sal?" 

"I--No, I'm not dragging Neil into this mess all over again. Maybe one day I'll gather the courage to face him but... not now." Maybe not ever. Not until Todd was exorcised of the demon. 

"I understand." Travis had finished his meal prior and stared at the empty plate. "You know... it's been a long day. We should really rest for the night. All of the planning for what's next should wait until tomorrow, when our heads are clear, yeah?" A tired brown eye caught Sal's own. "I don't even have work tomorrow, so I can help you plot and plan, if you'd like. Or, at least... help you settle in." 

Sal sighed. "You're right, yeah. Where... Where can I sleep?" 

"I have a few spare blankets and pillows. I could set you something up on the couch." 

His head bobbed in a weary nod. "Thanks."

"No worries." 

Travis slipped away to collect the comforts from the hallway closet. Sal's own mind had begun to drift into unwanted, disturbing territory--the horrors of his deeds crept forth from the recesses. He tried to muffle them. 

"It's done," Travis beckoned from the conjoined living room. 

Sal removed himself forcefully from the barstool and plodded over. The bedding was nothing special, of course, but it was somewhere in which he could rest, nonetheless. He crumbled into it. "Thanks," he repeated. 

Travis looked at him a moment longer, his eyebrows pinched in either concern or exhaustion--or both. "I... I'll be in my own room. Call me if you need anything, alright? Good night. May God bless you." 

"Good night," Sal mumbled back. And then, he was alone. 

He unclasped his prosthetic and laid it upon the coffee table, and, thereafter, removed his artificial eye, placing it aside the other. Once his head touched the pillow, a compelling drowsiness seized him and his organic eye could not bear to be open. He nestled further within the warm, albeit dusty, blankets, and let the slumber take him. 

This was what he needed. Sleep. Sleep would make him sane again--or so he hoped.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had been procrastinating this next one a bit, and wound up writing it all today.

_Through the endless darkness, Sal charged. The adrenaline pumped desperately through his veins, screaming within his body just to keep him alive. An open door shone in the distance, yet no matter the distance he ran, he never got any closer. His heart hammered and his chest constricted. His breaths felt like needles in his throat._

_Rain descended. He felt the first droplet on the scarred skin of his face. Then, an entire shower fell from above--if whatever beyond his head was above at all. He couldn't differentiate up or down or left or right. He was lost, and the rain had begun to weigh heavy in his hair and clothes. It tired him. Yet he refused to yield--salvation was close enough to taste._

_But that taste, he realized, was not salvation, and the rain was not water--but blood._

_The blood cascaded and coated his face in a deep, wine red, streaming down his body and limbs. It pooled about him in an endless sea. No longer could he feel the ground. Awash was he, drifting in that lonely sea of despair. A wave rippled, disheveling him, and the groans of a thousand erupted from beneath the red waters as the tides churned._

_Bodies began to float. Bodies he knew._

_The rotting flesh of fingers dug into his own marred, climbing up his limbs. Their chipped fingernails, all pallid and purple, bit into his skin as they drug him down, down, down. He wanted to scream, but nothing came out. The hands were holding his mouth shut. He could not breathe. His vision blurred beneath the slivers of fingers._

_Ravenously, they tore off his face._

Sal jolted awake upon the sofa, his chest heaving with shallow breaths. A cold sweat trickled down his spine and the hairs on his arms stood. The sensation of another's touch lingered on his body. But there was nothing there.

Instinctively, his hand rose to touch his face. It was still there, in all of its mangled tissue. A sigh escaped from his torn lips. 

With his eye, he searched about the room until it fell upon a clock hanging on the wall. It was 8 a.m. Only five hours had he slept, and it was turbulent with nightmares, but it was better than no sleep at all. Or so he tried to convince himself. His migraine, at least, had fully subsided, and that was something positive. 

Still languid with fatigue, Sal reattached his prosthetic to his face. Had he soaked his artificial eye overnight, he would have reapplied it, too. But he didn't, ergo it would cause him discomfort by chafing the innards of his socket, and that was what he wanted the least upon waking up. So he held it in hand, knowing not what else to do with it. Now that he had arrived at a more sane state of mind, he promptly realized that his medical necessities were long lost to himself. 

"Fuck!" 

Travis's head popped out from the threshold of his bedroom, clearly alerted by the exclamation. "Something the matter?" he asked, standing out into the hall. Unlike Sal, he was crisply dressed for the day and in the process of knotting his tie. 

"No, I, uh--Actually, yeah. It's my eye." 

"Your eye?" repeated Travis, his eyebrows scrunching together with concern. "Does it hurt?" He approached, ready to assess the situation, but paused abruptly when he noticed what it was Sal held. "Oh, Christ! We need to get you to the hospital!" 

"No, no, no!" Sal hastily gestured with his unoccupied hand to console the man on the brink of panic. "It's fake! Artificial! Glass!" 

"Glass. Right." The startle subsided, but the uneasiness remained. 

Sal had once informed Travis of his glass eye before, but that had been an eternity ago. It was in their senior year of highschool, Sal could recall, when the two had grown more friendly to each other. Sal had, deftly beneath his prosthetic, demonstrated the removal of his eye to him in the courtyard of Nockfell High, much to Travis's horror--But it seemed as though Travis had forgotten of those times. Not that it was his fault. Because of conflicting schedules, the two of them had rarely been in each other's company post-graduation, and even less so when Travis fled Nockfell. Of course a few details would fade from memory. 

Now was only a matter of circumstance, after all. 

"So, uh," Travis continued, "what exactly is the problem, then?" 

"I can't put it in since I haven't soaked or cleaned it. It'll just be dry and scrape against the cavity. I mean, I might _probably_ be able to go without it, but then my socket would be at risk of caving in, and, well." It was just another medical issue he would be better off without. 

"Is there anything special you need for cleaning it?" asked Travis. "I was just planning on heading to the store, anyways, since there's not enough food here for us both. I can probably pick up whatever you need." 

"Well," Sal began, "I would need sterile saline eye wash, soft contact solution, and hydrogen peroxide." The latter he knew Travis kept--he had seen it in the medical kit the prior night. 

"Hold on, let me just--" From the kitchen counter cluttered with newspapers and mail, Travis fetched an ink pen and a stack of sticky notes. Down he scribbled the items, softly murmuring the names of both as he wrote. 

"The saline wash and solution would probably be in the hygiene department, if they have it. Or, sometimes the medicine aisle," he added quickly, not wanting to send the other on an overwhelming goose hunt. As it was, a sense of guilt had already begun to tingle within himself for making Travis buy his supplies--he had always felt that way when others wasted money on him. It was a symptom of having little money to rely on when he lived with his father. 

"Hygiene or medicine aisle," he parroted, "got it." And then: "I should probably get going before the afternoon crowds settle in, so it's less of a hassle." He shifts. "I... would offer for you to come with me, but, considering the circumstance--" 

"It's alright. I get it." An unsettling air. 

"Are you... sure you'll be okay waiting here by yourself?" 

"Probably. I'm not going to murder your neighbors, if that's what you're thinking." The forced joke was an instinctive reaction, for dark humor was Sal's sole reliable coping mechanism--but it sounded deathly serious. His innards twisted. At his own words, he wanted to vomit. Travis didn't appear too comfortable, either." 

"I didn't--Right. Um. Okay, you know already where everything is... Call me if you need anything." 

"I... don't have a phone." He had discarded his own within the forest as the police had begun to arrive, thinking it could easily have him tracked. It wasn't a loss, really. It had too many unpleasant, disturbing messages of yesterday to bear. 

God, it had felt like Larry had committed suicide years ago, and he himself had already lived a lifetime of sorrow--yet in reality, it had only been a single night. It didn't feel real. None of it felt real. 

"--television stand." 

He reeled back into the present. "Sorry, what?." 

"I said that there's a home phone in the television stand. You know my number, don't you?" 

Of course he did. He had to dial it in the payphone before the police had gotten to him, after all. "...Yeah." 

The expression on Travis's face indicated some internal conflict. "Sal, are you positive that you'll be alright alone?" 

"Yeah, I'll... I'll be fine. You won't be long, though, right?" 

"Not at all. I'm just going to get simple stuff." 

"Okay. See you later."

"Bye, Sal." 

And before he knew it, Travis was already out the door. 

Even still, his eye was in hand. With a weary sigh, Sal detached himself from the sofa. To the kitchen he went, fishing a mug from the cupboard to store his eye within. Halfway, he filled it with water, and set it upon the counter. Next, he fetched the hydrogen peroxide from the bathroom and returned, adding it to the dilution. His eye wasn't intended to cleanse for more than half an hour at a time, but because he had missed the previous cleaning, he pretended that prolonging the soaking was a wise idea. Though he had to rinse it with saline water after the thorough soaking, he doubted Travis would have returned in that time. Oh, well. He could always concoct a makeshift solution with tap water and table salt, if need be. Sure, it wouldn't be _sterile_ , but it was better than nothing. 

His own eye stared at him from where it bathed atop the kitchen counter. He stared back. 

Nothing felt real. Even the surroundings in which he now found himself felt alien. He didn't belong here. He never did. Any second, now, the walls would close in on him and envelop him in that dissociative static. His ears were ringing. 

Had he really killed anyone? The denial had begun to settle within his chest. It all felt like a nightmare of which there was no escape. He still clung to the hope that, at any moment, he would suddenly wake up to the ceiling of his bedroom at Todd's--and everyone would be alive and well. Neil would be sipping on his morning coffee, Todd would be cursing at his computer coding. Larry would be lugging in boxes of his belongings to move in with them all. 

_Larry._

Tears erupted forth from both eye and socket. He didn't even try to prevent them. 

_His best friend was gone._

The man who had helped mend his wounded heart throughout the years broke beneath the pressure. The man who convinced Sal to not welcome death by his own hand was killed by the beast of suicide. Even now--even with the explanation all written on the smudged page of a suicide note--Sal questioned it. _Why did his brother have to die?_

It was all the cult's fault. Had they not imprisoned Nockfell in their wretched grip, then nobody would have had to suffer for another's wrath and greed. Nobody would have had to die. Least of all, Larry. 

The tears were sticky between his flesh and prosthetic. He swore that he was going to put an end to the cult. He had to. He just didn't know how. Yet.

.....

"Sal, I'm back!" hollered Travis as he stumbled through the entrance, numerous grocery bags hanging sorely from his arms. He deposited them onto the floor of the foyer, sighing as the weight relieved from his arms.

"Sal?" he called again when the prior went without response. Ever so vigilant, he approached the living room.

The entire wall had been covered in sticky notes. And there, standing on the sofa, was Sal himself, furiously scribbling upon the notes with a pen. 

Abandoning the groceries, Travis, in awe, crept forward. 

The wall had been converted into a conspiracy board. Each note retold a detail from the tales Sal had uttered the previous night. "Devourers of God" read emboldened in the midst of it all, and everything else revolved to that central point. Travis could only comprehend bits and pieces, though he tried to decipher the scrawl. All of the former tenants of Addison's had their own suspicions attached, and Sal's friends had their places among them, too. There were notes of cover-ups, demons, puzzles, hauntings, magic spheres, aliens--it all was nonsensical to himself. It seemed like something out of a movie. 

And then, the one that caught his eye and stagnated his pulse was the name of his own father: Samuel Phelps. Tentatively, Travis neared, and touched the sticky note with all of the courage he could muster--as if the very mention of the man's name would spring forth to bite him. 

His eye followed the arrows that pointed his father towards the greater meaning--and all of the accusations that Phelps Ministry harbored the Devourers of God. 

Suddenly, Travis felt lightheaded. He stepped back, as though the very proximity to the board struck him with irreversible illness. 

Sal, too entangled within his newfound madness, had not even noticed the other's presence. Travis chose not to comment. 

He quietly returned to unpacking the groceries.


End file.
